


If The Fates Were Kind

by FaunaProductions



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Love Never Dies - Lloyd Webber, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: F/M, also what is goin on with alw's math im so tired, and one reference to phantom of manhatten which i have never read, and thats THAT tyvm, brief mention of miscarriages, i also just wanna say i love those funky bartender dudes, i just rewrote lnd bc i wanted to, raoul is a GOOD dad and a GOOD husband, the events in my story are mostly alw, the years make no sense idk whats happenin, we will never know night shift dude's name tho, with a lil leroux sprinkled in
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-29
Updated: 2020-06-28
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:27:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 12,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24972286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FaunaProductions/pseuds/FaunaProductions
Summary: A missing manuscript from years past reveals the truth of what happened so long ago on Coney Island between Madame la Vicomtesse, Monsieur le Vicomte, and the mysterious Mr. Y, as recounted by them.-"The author" is their own character, as are family members mentioned.This is just a Love Never Dies rewrite. Just because I've rewatched it a hundred times doesn't mean I like it.I tried a Leroux style because he is a delight to read!!! And just as fun to write!!!
Relationships: Raoul de Chagny/Christine Daaé
Comments: 5
Kudos: 21





	1. A Note From The Author

In another universe, the newspapers might have been headlined,  **VICOMTE RETURNS TO FRANCE ALONE** or perhaps,  **VICOMTESSE MURDERED IN AMERICA** or even, if the fates were kinder and didn't have such twisted senses of humor,  **MR. Y STEALS DIVA FROM VISCOUNT HUSBAND** .

However, in this universe, they read none of those things.

Their headlines are other stories, ones I shan't bore you with as they have nothing to do with this curious tale.

For in this tale, Madame la Vicomtesse Christine de Chagny does not run away with the mysterious Mr. Y.

She is not shot by one Mademoiselle Marguerite Giry, although perhaps that small piece of metal was much too close to her important organs for comfort.

She does not die on the pier.

She isn't held in her lover's arms, begging for his kiss once more.

As one might speculate would have happened, had that bullet been even two inches to the left.

Oh no, she makes it out of this story very much alive.

Very much alive indeed.

For you see, it is she who would recount this story to myself—a young and curious author, at the time—many years past.

By that time, her hair had become silver, and her face wrinkled, but she remained kind, compassionate, and beautiful as ever.

In old age, she and her husband, Monsieur le Vicomte Raoul de Chagny, relocated to a small countryside estate in France, one which I managed to find the whereabouts of only after many days of searching and coming up empty.

She spoke to me about everything, and perhaps only because I was young and naive. A very slight writer, freckled face, still doe-eyed, no published stories as of yet.

Others, greater reporters than I, have tried to get the story from her, asking then harassing then sometimes even spreading rumors.

I have assured her I mean to do no such thing with this story.

Everything here is her own account, aside from the details which I had to do painstaking research to find.

I have spoken to many people, all of whom were either present at the time in question, or were told the stories by someone who was.

I have tried to be mindful of this—especially in the case of the latter—but la Vicomtesse has been with me every step of the way, and were there anything she did not approve of, she did not voice her concerns otherwise I would have removed it.

Now, that has been settled, and I may begin the true tale of what happened on Coney Island.


	2. How It All Came To Be

For you to properly understand this, I shall set the scene.

The year is 1905. The October air was beginning to chill in New York City.

Nearly but not quite three weeks before la Vicomtesse arrived in America, on the eleventh day of October, the Institute of Musical Art opened—a school founded, in part, by one Monsieur Erik de la Croix, otherwise known as Mr. Y of Phantasma fame.

I had the great pleasure of meeting the man himself and interviewed him for this book so that I might have a more complete story.

While hesitant, he did not withhold information from me and was willing to tell me all I could not learn from simply speaking to people who were close to him at the time—of which, I might note, there were not many.

In March 1905, he began his preparations, sending letters of correspondence with many individuals—though for privacy reasons I will not divulge their identities here.

One such individual—whom I have been allowed to refer to as Monsieur Courtemanche for purposes of separation and ease of understanding, without interrupting his family with bombardments from members of the press or readers of my book—wrote back in a timely manner, saying he would be delighted for Madame la Vicomtesse Christine de Chagny to perform again, and thus would assist Monsieur de la Croix, who at this time was masquerading as one Mr. Charles Dillingham, in his attempts to contact her.

Mr. Charles Bancroft Dillingham, as I'm sure you well know but I shall still say my piece on him for those unaware, was the manager of the Hippodrome in New York City until he left to pursue other interests in 1923.

An impressive building, to say the least, and the largest of its kind, the theater has held shows ranging from circuses to singers to dancers, with seating for fifty-three-hundred people.

He produced many shows and gave opportunities to performers of all kinds.

The opening for his theater was a four-hour-long extravaganza, beginning in the first act with  _ A Yankee Circus on Mars _ —featuring aerialists, spaceships, horses, elephants, clowns, a full orchestra of 60 musicians, hundreds of singers, 150 dancers performing to Ponchielli's  _ Dance of the Hours _ , and a baboon named Coco—before continuing into the second act with  _ Andersonville _ —an account of the notorious Confederate military prison in which many Union soldiers were maltreated, this second act was complete with gunfire, explosions, and troops on horseback swimming across the large water tank which simulated a lake.

I was saddened to hear that in May of this year, the Hippodrome was sold. I fear it may sit dark for some time, as their attempts to use it are seeming to fail.

Monsieur de la Croix was a close friend of Mr. Dillingham, as such, all he had to do was cash in a favor in order to use the director's name in his search for Madame de Chagny.

Monsieur Courtemanche found the soprano, tucked away at a little spring cottage with her husband and son, one of three cottages they might use during the springtime so as to be away from the much larger de Chagny estate near Paris.

Monsieur de la Croix wrote about a dozen letters in all, inviting her to perform at the Hippodrome under his guise of Mr. Dillingham.

Most of which she read, shook her head, and disposed of.

Finally, he received a letter back from Madame de Chagny, agreeing to perform one night.

La Vicomtesse told me it served somewhat as an excuse to travel with Gustave de Chagny, now a Vicomte of good standing at the age of thirty-three, but then a young boy of just ten years.

She would not have accepted the offer, though generous, had the young Vicomte Gustave de Chagny not been so eager to travel more—he has traveled much now, but he has divulged to me, during one of my two interviews with the Vicomte, that this was the most adventure he had ever experienced.

Once Monsieur de la Croix received her acceptance letter, he began other plans.

He arranged for her passage—allowing a plus one, but unaware as of yet that la Vicomtesse and le Vicomte were parents and would thus bring their son as well.

When asked about his reasoning for paying le Vicomte's crossing, Monsieur de la Croix told me he knew Madame de Chagny would not have come otherwise—a fact I later confirmed with la Vicomtesse at our next meeting.

As anyone who has ever been to Phantasma is aware, Monsieur de la Croix ends the season with a grand Halloween performance before closing the gates until the next spring.

As such, given the time it took to convince her, as well as the travel time from France to America, he decided that Madame de Chagny would be his headline act for said performance.

Although, for any of you fine readers out there who were alive and could remember 1905, you might know that Mademoiselle Marguerite Giry—then called Meg, Phantasma's famous Ooh-La-La Girl—was his headline performer, and had been for several seasons past.

Therein lies the first problem in the tale, the conflict of the story, that small fact that slipped Mr. Y's mind as he prepared for his soprano's arrival.

Mademoiselle Meg Giry's mother, a woman known by most only as Madame Giry, for very few used her given name of Antoinette, had helped Monsieur de la Croix travel to America in the year 1895, thirteen years after the events at the Opera Populaire.

Although I could not interview Madame Giry, as she passed some years ago, Monsieur de la Croix told me that she had helped him escape the horrible circus he'd been on display in, many years before Mademoiselle Christine Daaé arrived in France.

"This, the travel to America," he told me during one of our meetings, "is the second time Erik has owed his life to Madame Giry."

She and Mademoiselle Giry helped Monsieur de la Croix from the beginning, when he started Phantasma—back then perhaps a simple sideshow or two, not nearly the wonder it is now.

This serves as the second problem of the story, the Girys felt they were owed for what they had given him; and perhaps they were, it is not my place to say one way or the other.

The third, and final, problem of the story is this: Meg had a gun.


	3. La Vicomtesse Arrives

La Vicomtesse requested I not stand so strongly on honorifics and formalities, and address her as Christine. Let the readers be aware I mean no disrespect, I am simply carrying out her wishes.

"I have let you into the closets of my rooms, my dear," she said when I expressed my feelings of discomfort in referring to her by her given name, "Formalities are rather unneeded now."

Christine, Raoul, and Gustave packed enough clothing for six months in the States; while she would only be performing one night in New York City, the de Chagny family decided to travel the country, allowing Gustave the chance to see more of the world.

When they arrived at New York Harbor, they were immediately accosted by reporters from all the biggest newspapers in the city.

Raoul requested that no one take pictures of his son, but of course, those who had clear enough shots went straight to their publishers with them, in the hopes of making front-page news.

He also asked that they not interview him, but Gustave was young and eager, so he answered the few questions he heard from the mass of journalists.

From the port, they were picked up in a horseless carriage—designed and built by Erik himself—by the master of ceremonies, Dr. Gangle, the famed aerialist, Ms. Fleck, and the world's strongest man, Squelch.

These three are Erik's most trusted lieutenants, behind only Madame Giry, which would be the reason he sent them to collect the de Chagnys, for only his closest allies and friends could be trusted to do such an important task.

I regret to say that while I was able to interview Dr. Gangle, both Ms. Fleck and Squelch had passed away before I even began this journey. Out of respect, I did not press to find their given names but instead expressed my deepest condolences to the master of ceremonies who was at the time, and remains to this day, their dearest friend.

While Dr. Gangle no longer performs nor even manages Phantasma, he is provided a modest income by Erik and continues to advise him should he ask his opinion on the shows put on.

At their arrival at the hotel on Coney Island, appropriately called the Phantom Hotel—although no de Chagny, with the exception of young Gustave, took note of the name on the sign—Raoul expressed his displeasure at the photojournalists at their disembarkation.

"If you feel slighted, we can leave, dear," Christine assured him, not caring about contracts or promises, but rather for her husband's comfort.

Raoul sighed, about to reply when Gustave giggled, catching his attention.

"Father, look at this toy they gave me!" Gustave exclaimed excitedly as he turned the wind-up key, causing the music box to begin playing.

"Oh, what fun," Raoul said, kneeling beside his son. "The ice skaters in the globe! They move!"

At that, there was a knock on the door, which Raoul went to answer with no little amount of annoyance.

A moment later, he returned in higher spirits.

"Monsieur Dillingham has arranged a meeting in the hotel bar," he told his wife, smiling in a way that she described as brighter than a hundred suns.

Christine, however, did have some hesitancy about the meeting place. "The bar, Raoul?"

"My dear," he said, with a softness reserved only for his wife and son, "In ten years, have I ever once betrayed your trust in me?"

She was content with that answer, sending him off to meet Mr. Dillingham with a kiss.

Now, if you have been paying attention, you may be wondering why Mr. Dillingham would be there.

To put it very simply, he wasn't.

Erik sent the letter to lure Raoul from the hotel room so that he may speak to Christine in private.

After Raoul left, Christine helped Gustave settle in for bed, singing a short lullaby to lull him to sleep, a nightly ritual that worked every time without fail.

When she went back into the family room, thinking she might practice the aria sitting on the piano, she was instead met with quite an unwelcome surprise.

As she glanced over the sheet music, the balcony door was thrown open and when she turned, she saw the familiar white mask, and barely a moment later, she hit the floor.

Erik carefully lifted her up, setting her in the plush armchair.

He allowed her time to recover, and when she did, she was—rightfully, according to both parties present—shocked to find that she had not been imagining the man now in front of her.

"So, it was all an empty lie, then?" she asked softly, torn between hugging him or slapping him, though she has told me she felt she was leaning toward the latter option. "To make your death our story's end, and put your life beyond recall?"

She shoved him away as she stood, turning away from her Angel. "How dare you try to claim me now, when my life is happy and full of love."

"I have known so much pain," Erik argued weakly, reaching toward her. "If you could have felt the way I have… My Christine."

" _ Your _ Christine?" she asked, a new fire ignited in her eyes, and a new fury found in her voice as she spun around to face him again. "Once, very briefly, in a lapse of judgment,  _ that _ was the only time I was  _ yours _ ." She crossed her arms and cast her gaze downward. "Even that was with a man I no longer know nor even recognize."

He took a step toward her and she took two back.

"You came and found me, Christine," he growled, pointing an accusatory finger at her. "Don't you deny that you did!"

He stepped forward again and she took another two back.

Softly, he spoke up, all intimidating demeanor gone. "That night, so long ago, beneath a moonless sky."

"I looked to you for comfort," she said, still not quite meeting his eye, as one who was ashamed of their actions would be likely to do. "It was impossible to see a thing, yet I knew your lair so intimately, I needn't use a lantern nor candle to light my way."

"In that moment, we were simply a woman and a man," he said, his hand coming up to touch the cold porcelain of his mask. "No more, and yet, no less."

She took the initiative this time, carefully and with calculated accuracy striding closer to him.

"The things we said, quiet mutterings in the dark," she trailed off as her own hand found his mask, gently gliding across the smooth surface. "We should never have uttered them aloud."

He recoiled from her touch, turning his back to her. "And before the sun had even risen, afraid to see how you might look at me, I stood as you slept… I whispered goodbye, then fled into the night."

"I was so angry," she said, her hand slowly finding his shoulder. "I had so many things I wanted to say, things I needed to tell you, but… you were gone." She pursed her lips, her hand falling to her side. "For good, I had thought."

"I had to, Christine," he said, in a way Madame de Chagny later described to me as quite like a kicked puppy might whine. "We both knew why."

"We did," she agreed, a frown set on her lips.

He turned to her again, reaching to take her hands in his. "And now?"

"How can you even talk of now?" she asked, pulling away from him. "For us, there is no now."


	4. Threats And Promises

Silence followed Christine's statement. I am told that it was so quiet, you could almost hear a heart breaking.

Finally, Christine couldn't stand it anymore, speaking up once again in an attempt to move on, "You chose to turn the page on our story, and I chose to do things I never should have even considered."

"Christine-"

"We did what we thought must be done," she spoke over him, squaring her shoulders and raising her chin. "And now, we have no other options, no chance to make another choice." She sighed, her gaze wandering to the hallway, and more specifically, the door to her son's room before returning and once again settling on the masked man. "We love, we live, we give what we can… and we take what very little we deserve."

"I knew how our story would end," he said, almost too softly to be heard, "and maybe I was wrong. I would bend time itself, if I could, to fix all my mistakes and shortcomings, but I'm not nearly strong enough."

A door being tossed open, followed by the pitter patter of little feet, drew both of their attention from each other and instead to the young boy who ran to his mother's side, burying his face against her torso.

"Maman, please, I'm scared!" he sobbed, clutching her skirts like they were the only thing keeping him on the ground. "I had such an awful dream! Someone strange and mad seizing me and drowning me!"

She gently combed her fingers through his hair, ignoring how Erik was staring at her, then at the boy, then back again.

One could almost see the tornado of thoughts swirling in his head.

"It's okay, Gustave, I'm here," she cooed, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. "Would you like to meet a friend of mine?"

Gustave peeled himself away from his mother's side, wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his nightshirt.

Erik straightened up immediately, his regular mystical and slightly intimidating aura recovered in an instant. "Welcome to my world, my friend, I am Mr. Y."

Gustave's eyes widened, his nightmare apparently all but forgotten. Unlike his parents, he'd spent the entire carriage ride staring out the window, soaking in all the wondrous things on Coney Island. "This place is  _ yours _ ?"

Erik grabbed the boy's hand, leading him to the open balcony door. Christine followed closely, one hand hovering over her son's shoulder as Erik pulled him closer and closer to the edge.

It is good to remember, at this point in the story, that in 1881, some 24 years earlier, Madame la Vicomtesse was nearly killed by a falling chandelier—and indeed, an audience member was, in fact, crushed under the massive object, instead of its intended victim—and one Monsieur Joseph Buquet and one Signor Ubaldo Piangi had each been brutally murdered within a 9 month period of the same event; in the case that you do not know the full story already, or as of yet, have not guessed the correlation, it will be explained in the coming chapters.

"Tell me where you want to go, young Vicomte, tell me what you would like to see in Phantasma," Erik requested, grabbing the boy and lifting him up onto the balcony railing; Christine's hands immediately found her child's arm and she kept a gentle but firm grip on him, should Erik get any malicious ideas. He glanced sideways at her, a polite grin on his face. "Madame, please, I insist."

Gustave, while Erik and Christine had a silent argument, was instead enamored by the dancing lights on the island below. "Can you show me, if you please, all the mysteries of your world?"

"You shall see it all tomorrow," Erik glanced briefly at Christine before returning his gaze to Gustave. "I shall show you myself, little Vicomte!" He lifted the boy off the rail, putting him down onto the balcony—which greatly eased Christine's anxiety. "I promise."

"Back to bed now, Gustave," she said, smoothing down his hair before pressing a kiss to his forehead.

She escorted him back inside, leading him to the hallway.

"Why does he wear a mask, Mother?" Gustave asked curiously, leaning around her to look at the man still in the door of the balcony. "Is he a magician?"

"In his way, darling," she answered, kissing him once more on the forehead before nudging him into his bedroom. "I'll be there in a minute, if you've not already fallen asleep by that time."

She turned back to Erik, a frown set into her lips as she strolled over to him.

"I know what Dillingham is paying you," he said before she could say a word, "I'll double it, just for one song here."

"You let me believe you were dead for ten years," she said, contempt clear in her voice and—perhaps even more so—on her face. "Why would I submit to you now? I owe you nothing."

"Perhaps," he muttered, his gaze flicking to Gustave's bedroom door before returning to her, "but, Christine, it is so very easy to get lost on this island, unable to find your way back…"

"You dare to threaten my  _ child _ ?" Christine hissed, shrill enough that you could be sure she was a soprano but soft enough so as to not alarm the child in question. "You would threaten my  _ son _ and think you might win my voice that way?"

He quickly tried to backtrack, but she didn't allow him to say anything.

She was seething with rage as she continued through gritted teeth and narrowed eyes, "If you think I will not walk out that door with my husband and my son  _ tonight _ ," she accentuated her point with a sharp stab of her finger against his chest, "then perhaps they were wrong when they called you a genius."

He swallowed thickly, seeming to shrink. "No, of course, I…" he shook his head. "The child will come to no harm, I swear it."

"I will sing, if only for old time's sake," she said, raising her chin as she all but snarled at him, "But threaten him again, and I assure you, you will learn my bite is much worse than my bark—I am no longer the precious little ingenue you used to teach."

He nodded, backing up through the balcony doors, closing them behind himself.

Christine relayed to me later that her feelings at the time rather leant toward the hope he might have fallen from the great height, though she then said she felt guilty for the thoughts as she was not a particularly violent woman and, quite honestly, she still did not hate the man to the point of wishing him dead.


	5. Dear Old Friends

Christine moved over to the grand piano, picking up the sheet music there. Among the pages of the aria was also a contract of employment, hiring Christine for one show at the closing of the season.

Raoul returned to the room, looking disappointed and upset.

Christine's mood immediately shifted from angry at Erik to concerned about Raoul.

"Dearest?" she asked softly, "What's wrong?"

"Monsieur Dillingham did not even make an appearance," he told her, dropping into the plush armchair. "I waited and nothing! He didn't even have the courtesy to let me know he wouldn't be coming!"

"I'm not sure he ever was," she said, handing him the contract.

As Raoul looked through the terms, he looked more and more confused.

Finally, after reading it and re-reading it, he spoke up. "Who is this Monsieur Y?"

"It's  _ him _ ," she said, pursing her lips. "He visited me after you were called away."

Raoul's eyes widened. " _ Him _ ?" he stood from his chair, grabbing her shoulders. "Did he harm you? Did he lay a hand on Gustave? If he did, I'll-"

"No, dear," she soothed him, shaking her head. "He merely asked that I sing for his closing show."

"You declined, of course," he said, and when she didn't respond, he continued, "You  _ did _ decline, did you not?"

"I accepted the offer," she admitted, "It's only one song, and then we can go."

He frowned. "Are you sure you know what you're doing?"

"Trust me, my love," she said, gently stroking his cheek.

He nodded slowly before leaning down to kiss her. "If you're absolutely sure."

"I am," she assured him. "Let's see if Gustave has fallen asleep yet. If not, perhaps you can tell him a story."

Gustave ducked between performers and stagehands, racing through Phantasma.

"Gustave, slow down!" Christine laughed, muttering a quick apology to a pair of men who were carrying a ladder that Gustave chose to dash under rather than go around—as is to be expected from a ten year old boy when released into a world as wondrous as Coney Island.

"There are people working," Christine said once she finally caught up with her son. "Be careful."

"When will we see Monsieur Y?" he asked excitedly, still looking around in wonder.

"I'm sure he will find us," she answered, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Now, help Maman find the stage manager, hm?"

She watched him run up to one of the stagehands who kneeled to talk to him.

"Are you sure he'll be safe with  _ him _ ?" Raoul asked quietly, eyebrows furrowing as he watched the child talk animatedly to the stagehand.

"Oh, yes, quite sure," she replied, "I've made sure of it."

Raoul gave her a hesitant nod before strolling over to Gustave.

She smiled, shaking her head as she turned to the blonde woman going over some notes about staging and costumes.

Christine tapped her shoulder to get her attention. "Excuse me, I wonder if you could help me?"

She turned around, her eyes widening immediately. "Heaven help me, it can't be!"

Christine took a step backward, at first wondering if she might have simply been a fan who recognized her, but something was familiar about her face. "Sorry, do I…"

"Yes, I think you might!" she grinned, doing a quick twirl. "Go on, take a guess!"

Christine gasped, grabbing the other woman's hands. "Oh my word, I can't believe it's you!"

"Look at you, Christine!" she squealed, touching her cheek. "Regal as a queen, and beautiful!"

"Oh, Meg, you look wonderful!" she laughed, grinning at her. "Oh, my dear old friend! What of your career?"

"It's going so well!" Meg answered, "You came to see the sights?"

"And sing," Christine added, "I'm trying to find the stage manager now."

"Sing?" she repeated, her smile falling in an instant. "Here? When?"

"Tomorrow night, just before the close of the show," she said, frowning. "Is something the matter?"

Meg released her hands, leaning back against the table behind her. "That's the leading lady's spot," she explained, deflating. "I always open and close the season for Mr. Y."

"Surely there's been a mistake in the booking," Christine assured her, though she had a feeling Mr. Y simply did not take that into account when he planned his Halloween Spectacular—a feeling which was, in fact, completely correct.

"Darling, look who I've just found," Raoul said, strolling over with a woman Christine immediately recognized—she hadn't changed at all, still wearing what seemed to be the same black dress and keeping her hair up in a bun with a braided crown.

"Oh, Madame Giry!" Christine pressed a kiss to each of her cheeks. "It's been ages!"

"I'd heard you were coming to sing for Monsieur Dillingham," she said, though something in her tone made Christine think she knew all along that Erik had been behind it.

"She's been otherwise engaged now," Raoul said with a tight-lipped smile. "Outbid by your very own Monsieur Y."

"In the leading lady's spot," Meg added, grabbing her mother's arm.

"I barely sing," Christine said quickly, "A small aria, that's all."

"Well, I am sure we can get this sorted out," Madame Giry said, patting Christine's hand.

"This must be a joke," Meg said, pursing her lips.

"A silly game," Raoul added with a nod, "Although to what end, I could not even begin to pretend to understand."

"Let's move onto brighter topics of conversation," Christine piped up, taking her husband's elbow. "You've not met our son!" She turned to look at the stagehands still working, but upon her first glance, she didn't see him. "Gustave?"

Raoul looked around, brows furrowing. "Gustave, your mother's calling!"

"Is something wrong?" Madame Giry asked, frowning.

"I've just seen him!" Raoul said, starting to move away. "He was with those clowns, the three that picked us up last night."

Christine grabbed Meg's arms. "Please, you must know this place better than anyone, don't you?"

"Maman, take le Vicomte," Meg said, taking Christine's hand. "Christine and I will head toward the hall of mirrors, you head to the ferris wheel and other rides."

Madame Giry nodded. "Come with me, monsieur. Hurry, or we shall be too late."

There had to have been some irony in that statement—parroted words from years ago, when Madame Giry escorted Raoul to the place Erik had been the first time, when he'd taken the young Mademoiselle Daaé.

How the tides change, with the young Monsieur de Chagny in his clutches now instead.


	6. The Beauty Underneath

The boy was, in truth, untouched and unharmed—not that his parents, nor the Girys, were aware of this at the time, of course.

Dr. Gangle, Miss Fleck, and Squelch—who, from this point on, shall be referred to as The Trio, to save from writing each of their names and ease of reading—escorted Gustave through Phantasma, ending their adventure in the lair of the one and only Erik de la Croix.

"Is this where Monsieur Y lives?" Gustave asked curiously, eyes dancing over the automatons and instruments, inventions and music, science and art.

"Where he works," Miss Fleck said with a flourish.

Gustave moved freely around the room, inspecting paintings and machines alike, shuffling sheets of music around, finding notes for inventions that he couldn't even begin to guess what the uses of which might be. 

"Hello, young Vicomte," Erik said, strolling past him with several mechanical parts in his hands. "I shall be done in a moment, and then we may begin our tour of the island."

Gustave stood at the grand piano, hands hovering over the keys. "May I?"

"Oh," Erik chuckled, raising his only visible eyebrow at the boy—or, indeed, his only eyebrow, as beneath the mask there is none on the opposing side of his face. "Does the young Vicomte play?"

Gustave began tapping the keys, carefully and well-crafted.

"What is this?" Erik asked, for even in his vast knowledge of operas and musical plays alike, he hadn't heard a song such as this.

"Just a song in my head," Gustave said, in time with the notes he played. "I think it's beautiful."

"Sing," Erik said immediately, stepping toward him—his automaton-in-progress left forgotten.

Gustave sang a short cadenza.

"Sing!" Erik repeated, "Sing for me!"

Gustave's cadenza was higher this time, and with more notes.

Erik gasped, covering his mouth.

The young de Chagny tilted his head, his hands on the keys stilling as a frown tugged at the corners of his mouth. "Is everything alright, Monsieur Y?"

"Come, little Vicomte," he said, holding out his hand to the boy. "Have you ever yearned for a world beyond what you know? Have you been enthralled by the pull of it all?"

"Yes!" Gustave answered immediately, grinning.

Erik lifted him up and put him on the piano. "Look around, my boy, at the wonders of my world!"

The automatons seemed to come alive as Erik threw his arms open.

Several walked past as though they might be human beings and not mechanical masterpieces, a monkey in the corner played the cymbals, a six armed skeleton played the organ.

"Do you ever sense strange things, things that it might be beyond the ability of mere words to express them?" he asked the boy who was in complete awe of his surroundings. "Can you sense the power of the night, a power you hunger for, yearn for?"

"Yes!" Gustave said again, staring wide eyed at the creations. "It's so strange, yet beautiful!"

"Oh, yes, little Vicomte!" Erik said, a grin on his face that perhaps had not been properly acquainted with his facial muscles in quite some time. "You see the world as I do, you see  _ my _ world!"

"Does the music play in your head as well?" Gustave asked as Erik grabbed him from the piano and put him down again, so that his feet were on solid flooring. "Do you see what I see?" He laughed gleefully. "This is like all of my dreams have been set upon the real world!"

Erik had his back to the boy, his mind whirring just like the gears in his creations. "You can face the beauty underneath everything else?"

"Yes!" Gustave repeated again, the grin on his face never wavering.

"You've no fear of it then?" he asked softly, turning to the boy.

"None, Monsieur!" he answered, clasping his hands together.

Erik's hand came up to his mask. "You can see through to the truth?"

Gustave nodded enthusiastically.

Erik kneeled in front of him. "Let me show you the beauty under-"

Gustave screamed as the mask and wig were removed, revealing the dreadful deformity that hid behind them—while the untouched side of his face was something of a beautiful sight, the other was more or less the opposite, something truly terrifying as though pulled straight from one's nightmare.

"Gustave!" Christine shouted as her son ran into her arms. "It's okay, I'm here now!"

"Oh, Maman, it's horrible!" he sobbed, shaking his head.

"Meg, get him to Raoul," Christine said softly, gently pushing the boy toward her. "Please, I need a moment with…"

She pursed her lips, tilting her head in Erik's direction.

Meg simply nodded, taking the child away.

Christine stepped toward Erik, folding her hands in front of herself. "I apologize, he didn't mean any offense."

He stayed silent, his mask and wig laying on the floor as he stayed in the same position, kneeling beside the piano.

"He's only a child," she added, taking another few steps forward. "You must forgive him, he's young."

She knew the man's story, and felt pity for him, and perhaps even some guilt at her child screaming the first time he saw him.

His own mother could not stand his face at his birth, viewing him as an abomination—she even covered his deformities with a mask, the same as he chooses to do now, so that no one would be able to look upon his face and accuse her of being a liaison of the devil himself.

Erik stood suddenly, straightening up to his full height, abandoning the articles he might normally use to hide his visage where they lay on the floor. "I am curious," he said, not yet turning to face the soprano. "Did you hope I might simply be a fool, unable to guess the truth?"


	7. In The Time Between

To fully understand the story, we must go back to long before it.

Everyone is aware of the events that took place in the Opera Populaire in the years 1881 and 1882.

I shan't bore you by repeating many of the details from those times, except of course that which is needed for the tale I tell.

The Opera Ghost disappeared after the opening night of the opera titled  _ Don Juan Triumphant _ , an opera which he himself was said to have penned.

Now, perhaps it is common knowledge and perhaps it is not, but the famed Opera Ghost had a name.

Erik.

He took a surname when he moved to America, de la Croix, but previous to that he hadn't a family name to claim as his own.

Now, perhaps if you followed the stories of the Opera Populaire and the information I have supplied within these pages, you might understand a connection between Mr. Y and Christine's near death experience as she had almost been crushed by a falling chandelier.

If it seems I talk of these events lightly, that is not the case. My own grandmother was a ballet girl at the Opera Populaire in the 1870s and 1880s, and she was there when the chandelier fell—the large scar on her leg was not enough to end her career, but it did make for an interesting conversation point in later years.

In the summer months of 1882, Mademoiselle Christine Daaé became Madame la Vicomtesse Christine de Chagny.

Despite this and the events at the opera house, she continued to take singing lessons from her Angel of Music whenever she could, something she hid from her husband for she knew he would not approve.

Thirteen years into marriage, the couple's relationship had become strained—largely in part due to the loss of every child they conceived.

Christine tried to ease the tension, promising to Raoul that she did not care—though she did very much, as she had been eager to become a mother—but her assurances did little to calm his troubled mind.

He turned to the bottle, if only for some mild tranquility.

The turning point came when he drank perhaps too much, and his dearest Christine feared for her own safety.

I would like to say here that he did not lay a hand on her, nor do either believe he would have, however in the moment Christine fled so that she might return when he was in a better state of mind.

I am also glad to say that after that night, Monsieur le Vicomte Raoul de Chagny has not touched a drop of the vile substance which scared his wife so, with the exception of once—a choice which I believe you, the readers, will likely understand after it is explained in the coming chapters.

But that is not the side of the night I will be retelling, rather I shall be focusing on Madame de Chagny and her Angel.

His lair was the only place she could think of which she could bear to go to.

It was dark and she was nearly injured more than once on the winding roads. A heel from her boot snapped off at one point and she was forced to limp awkwardly the rest of the way.

She stole to his side, finding comfort and safety in his embrace.

I will not go into detail, as that would make this too vulgar a tale to be published, and I did not ask for comprehensive accounts from either la Vicomtesse or Monsieur de la Croix, so I could not give a thorough explanation even if I wanted to.

Suffice to say, for the first time since their meetings began, no music lessons transpired.

I am sure, given the details I have provided, you will be able to draw your own conclusions quite easily about what might have happened that night, and—more to the point, and more specifically—why Mr. Y might be so intrigued by the young Vicomte.

It is also worth keeping in mind that very shortly afterward, not even two days past, Erik left the country for America, ensuring that la Vicomtesse would believe him dead so she did not search for him.


	8. The Confrontation And The Confession

Erik still did not turn around.

"What do you mean?" Christine asked, though her heart was beating out of her chest and she nearly wanted to run away rather than face the question she knew he was asking.

"Do you have something to confess, my dear?" he growled, finally turning to face her, roughly grabbing her arms as he got uncomfortably close to her face. "I want the truth right now if so!"

She steeled herself, clenching her jaw.

She inhaled deeply. "Once upon another time, you left me," she said, her expression softening, "but that isn't all you did."

His grip on her started to slip as it started to properly sink in.

"You left me with a son," she said, confirming his suspicions of both his most secret dream and his most secret fear. "I wanted you to know from the moment I did, but I thought you had died, killed by that mob… So instead, I hid the truth, what else was I meant to do?"

"A son…" Erik muttered, stumbling backward in utter shock. " _ My _ son…" He shook his head, dragging a hand down his face. "Forgive me, Christine, if I'd known… But even he shuns me, my own flesh and blood…"

He turned away from her again, leaning against the piano. "Go now, take him and leave! Promise me, however, the boy can never know the truth!"

"I swear it, believe me," she said, approaching him slowly. "But I also swear your music will not remain unheard."

She put her hand on his shoulder and he stiffened.

"I'll sing for you once more," she told him softly, "Then we shall take our leave, and I do sincerely doubt you will ever see us again."

Erik turned around, gently stroking her cheek. "Christine…"

She took a hold of his hand, moving it away from her face. "Goodbye."

She strolled toward the exit, not even looking back at the man who stared after her like he had been punched in the stomach.

Erik's thoughts were swirling like an oncoming storm. Despite everything, despite his deformity, despite all he had done, here was this child, a beautiful light in the darkness, his saving grace.

"Ah, Christine," he muttered aloud, though by this time she was already gone, leaving him alone in the room. "He's my reason to live, our son shall have everything I have, he will have all I create and all I'll never be worth."

What neither Erik nor Christine knew, however, is that Madame Giry and Raoul had met Meg and Gustave just outside.

"Can you take him to the hotel room?" Raoul asked, "I'm going to make sure my wife is okay."

"We will see to him, Monsieur le Vicomte," Madame Giry assured him with a nod.

Raoul was just about to enter when he heard those fateful words pass Christine's lips.

"You left me with a son," she said, and it was not to her husband, but to the masked man in the room with her.

He didn't hear another word she said after that, all he could think about was the implications of what she had said—at the time of their marriage, after losing their children, she had found the Phantom in his lair and done the unthinkable with him.

Gustave was not his.

His wonderful, talented, beautiful son was not his.

For the first time in ten years, Raoul really did feel like he needed a drink—a  _ strong _ drink, something to make him forget what he'd heard, or at least dull him to the pain of the twisting knife in his back.

He left his original goal, heading toward the bar on the pier instead. Christine barely missed seeing him on her exit from the room.

Mere minutes later, he was sat on a barstool, a glass of alcohol in his hand.

He stared at it for a long time, fighting with himself on whether or not he should actually drink it.

"Listen, bud," the bartender—whose name the Vicomte never did catch, and whom I have been entirely unable to track down—said suddenly, causing Raoul to look up from the liquid. "You seem to be on the wagon, y'know, all sober-like, lemme tell you this, you's gonna regret it if you fall off it again, ya hear me?"

"Shouldn't you be encouraging me to drink, sir?" Raoul asked wryly, propping his arms on the bar. "After all, you're making money off of my misery."

"'Ey, I ain't no therapist or counselor or what have you," he said as he wiped down the counter, "But you seem a nice guy, and I see that nice ring ya got on, I'm sure the wifey don't want ya fallin' off the wagon anymore than you wanna get hit by that same wagon."

"Well, there's where you're wrong, sir," Raoul said, and knocked the entire drink down in one shot. "I don't believe she cares at all what I do, with wagons or otherwise."

"'Ey, just thought I would toss in my two cents," the bartender shrugged and filled the glass again. "Do what ya want, friend, I ain't in charge of your choices."

Raoul laughed. "You're absolutely right, you're not."

Raoul stayed in the bar, drinking more and more until the wee hours of the morning.

The bartender occasionally engaged in small talk with him, but he wasn't all that interested so eventually the bartender had to admit defeat and stop trying.

"One more," Raoul said, holding his glass out to the bartender.

"Ah, buddy, ain't ya had enough?" he asked, looking out the window. "It's practically mornin' already!"

The sun was just beginning to rise above the sea.

A stunning sight to behold, and yet not one Raoul could bring himself to care about.

"One more, I said," he repeated, slamming the glass onto the bar.

"Yeah, alright, alright," the bartender said, grabbing the bottle. "My shift's nearly over anyways. So, how's about you settle the bill, eh?"

He wordlessly pulled the money from his pocket, setting it down on the counter.

"Geez, you's in a bad way, ain't ya?" the bartender asked as he put the money in the cash box. "Worse than most that end up here."

The door opened and a similarly dressed man entered.

"Ah, here's the mornin' shift," the bartender said, untying the apron around his waist. "Maybe he'll know what to do with ya."

"Ah, yes, what to do with me," Raoul muttered, downing the contents of his glass. "That is the question, isn't it?"

He sighed, watching as the bartenders swapped out.

"She had an affair with a madman and a murderer," he said to the morning shift bartender, "Would you say she loves me, sir?" He held his glass out. "Another drink is exactly what I need, something to leave the hurt behind."

He rubbed his eyes, sighing again. "She wanted me, a husband and father, but I suppose I was simply too boring in the end."

The morning shift was not nearly as talkative as the night shift, he merely poured drinks—a fact that Raoul wasn't sure whether he was thankful for or not.

"Morning, Bernie, coffee please!" Meg Giry still ran like a ballerina, graceful and poised as she stopped at the counter. "Hurry up, if you can, I'll just take it black!"

Bernie nodded, turning to pour a cup from the fresh pot.

Meg spotted Raoul across the bar and strolled over to him. "Monsieur le Vicomte, fancy meeting you here."

"Mademoiselle Giry…" he greeted her, raising his glass like a toast before drinking from it.

"Drowning your sorrows, are you?" she asked, accepting the cup of coffee from Bernie.

"Oh, on the contrary, I'm drinking to reunions with dear old friends I thought long dead and buried," he said, downing the rest of his bourbon. "And you? What brings Phantasma's star to this dead end resort?"

"I'm here for a swim, a daily tradition of mine to keep my conscience clean," she said, holding up the towel in her hand. "This town is cold and harsh; the sea, however, is a much kinder place."

There was a lapse in the conversation as she drank her coffee and he had another bourbon poured.

"Vicomte, have you even thought of what will happen after the performance?" she asked, her eyebrows furrowing as she frowned. "When he hears her sing again, Monsieur…"

"I wish I knew, Mademoiselle Giry," he replied, taking a long drink. "Her music is something of a mystery to me, it is beautiful but I'm not particularly knowledgeable in that area." He chuckled, shaking his head. "Even after 25 years together."

"Believe me, there is more to this than the music," she told him, setting her empty coffee cup on the counter. "Take her and the boy and just go, leave this place while you can."

"Mademoiselle, what do you mean?" he asked, standing from his stool. "What are you talking about?"

"Just trust me, Monsieur, don't let her sing," she urged him, heading toward the door. "Once he gets into her soul, there will be nothing you can do."

"I'm not afraid of him!" he called after her, "Meg, I've bested him before! When it comes down to it, he's just another clown in this circus!"


	9. Devil Take The Hindmost

When Raoul turned around, he found himself face to face with the very clown he'd just been talking about—Bernie, on the other hand, was nowhere to be seen, behind the bar or otherwise.

"You!" Raoul growled at the masked man.

"You reek of alcohol," Erik sneered, his lip curling in disgust as he stepped around the counter.

"Stay away from me!" Raoul shouted, stumbling backward. "I'll kill you, I swear!"

"I doubt you could aim well enough to strike me," Erik laughed, calmly strolling toward him. "I am not here to fight, however, I am here to offer a bet."

"A drinker, perhaps, but a gambler I am not," Raoul spat, rolling up his sleeves. "Besides, what could  _ you _ even offer me?"

"Oh, this is not a simple prize, like cards or dice might award you," Erik said, standing barely an arm's length away now. "It is much like our competition from years past."

"What are you suggesting?" Raoul asked, hands curling into fists at his sides.

"I am suggesting, dear Vicomte," he took a single step forward, closing the distance between them, "A choice for our very own Christine to make."

Raoul scoffed. "What do you take me for, a fool?"

"Indeed," he confirmed, a smile creeping onto his face though it held no happiness, merely contempt. "If you really think you own more of her soul than I, then I do believe you are sorely mistaken."

"She is my wife!" he spat back, "She chose me before, she will choose me every time after!"

"You really think so?" Erik raised an amused eyebrow. "Even after," he gestured to Raoul, "all of this? She will still trust you, follow you,  _ love _ you?"

Raoul snatched the mask and wig from his head, throwing them down onto the floor. "Better she choose a flawed man than a monster!"

Erik's fist connected with Raoul's jaw, sending him stumbling backwards. "You cannot call yourself a man, you cannot even call yourself a father!"

Raoul stiffened.

"Then let her choose, cut the deck, roll the dice," he decided, shoving the towering man. "What are your stakes, Monsieur?"

Erik grabbed his cravat, spinning around with him before slamming him back against the bar. "If she sings, you leave here forever, alone, no wife, no boy."

"And if she does not?" he asked, trying and failing to pry Erik's fingers away from his neck.

"I will pay you what you are owed, and never seek out my Christine again," he answered, finally stepping back, retrieving his mask and wig from the floor and fitting them back upon his visage. "Not under my own name, nor a pseudonym, nor a disguise—left alone for the rest of our lives, whoever dies first."

"Fine," Raoul said, straightening his cravat. "Devil take the hindmost."

"Indeed, Monsieur le Vicomte," Erik said with a wave of his fingers before he disappeared through the door. "Devil take the hindmost."

It was then that Monsieur le Vicomte Raoul de Chagny realized he had made a grave mistake—he had just gambled his wife and son to a man whom she had just admitted was the child's father, a man who was not above going to terrible lows to win, a man who could enthrall the woman he loved with a single word from his mouth.

In short, this was a mistake he may never recover from, if he did not win.

The concert was mere hours away now, that night she would either sing and stay with him forever like a sailor lured in by a siren, or her husband would convince her not to give in, to simply leave with him, no matter what consequences there might be.

He thought about the boy, what he had overheard through the door, the question of his parentage had never even been a consideration in his mind, and yet, perhaps it should have been.

He realized then that it didn't matter.

The Phantom may have provided what was necessary for Gustave's birth, but he was  _ not _ his father—his father was the man who played with him every day, who read him stories about knights and dragons and fantastical events, who had  _ raised _ him for the ten years he had been on earth, not the man who contributed the other half of his puzzle.

Raoul grabbed his coat and hurried out the door.

While Raoul was busy sobering up, Christine was busy preparing for the show.

Erik stalked around in the shadows, watching as she did sound checks and warmups, discussed staging and costumes, and was shown lighting and special effects.

Gustave was kept entertained by The Trio, none of whom were parents but all of whom were very good with kids—a necessity of the trade.

Erik occasionally lingered, watching the giggling ten-year-old as he ran around the carnival, trying all sorts of rides and games.

The masked man told me that he considered approaching the child once or twice, but the thought quickly took its leave as he remembered the way he had recoiled and run from his face.

The time for the performance was rapidly approaching when Raoul finally made his way to her dressing room, no longer stinking of alcohol.

In the time he took to sober up, he even changed his clothing—just in case the smell lingered, or the wrinkled shirt gave his wife the wrong impression.

He'd spent a long time carefully considering his words, what he would tell her, how to phrase it.

He took a deep breath to steel himself before strolling into the dressing room, almost more casually than his anxiety over the situation allowed.

"Father!" Gustave greeted him enthusiastically, hugging him around the waist and looking up at him with big sparkling eyes. "Doesn't Mother look lovely tonight?"

"Indeed, she does." He chuckled, picking his son up. "As lovely as she looked the very first time I came to her dressing room door."

"Oh, look at you, Raoul," she smiled at him in the mirror, "You're still the handsome boy from that opera box, the one who would always toss me a single red rose."

"Gustave, my darling," Raoul said, putting him back down. "Would you mind waiting outside a moment?"

"When will Mother sing?" he asked, looking back and forth between his parents. "I don't want to miss it!"

"Wait backstage, dear," Christine said, fixing his hair before adjusting his suit jacket. "Papa will find you soon, and you can watch from the wings like we'd discussed."

He nodded, gave each of them a quick hug, then disappeared through the dressing room door.


	10. Before The Performance

"My darling," Raoul said, kneeling beside Christine. "I'm afraid I have broken the trust you had in me."

She frowned, eyebrows furrowing. "Raoul?"

"I drank last night—indeed, well into the night and only finished as the sun had risen," he admitted, taking her hand into his own. "I wasn't thinking straight, and when I started, I couldn't stop."

"My love," she said, gently stroking his cheek with her free hand. "Whatever could have sent you back down that path?"

"I heard you talking to him," he said, "I was going to retrieve you, and I heard…" he paused, pursing his lips as he chose his next words. "I know I'm not Gustave's father."

With something like that, there is no reason to talk the hindlegs off a donkey—it pays to simply get to the point.

Christine froze, eyes widening as she stared at him, searching his face desperately for some kind of indication of what he was thinking.

He didn't leave her wondering for long, holding her hand to his lips to kiss her knuckles. "I don't care, my darling—he is my son, even if he is not my flesh and blood."

"Oh, Raoul," she said softly, "Of course he is."

"I will not touch another drop of alcohol for the rest of my days," he continued, running his thumb over her hand. "You will have the man you've known, trusted, and loved back to you again, if you can only fulfill one request."

She smiled, carding her fingers through his hair. "Anything, my love, anything at all."

"Don't sing the song, my sweet," he said, gently squeezing her hand. "You must know something is terribly wrong here—the song, the performance, all of it."

She frowned, thinking of the promise she made to Erik—the song would be performed, the audience would hear it, and she would sing for him one last time—and then thought of the promise she made to Raoul—to love him, to cherish him, for all the rest of their days on this earth.

"But, my darling, I must do this," she said, eyebrows furrowing. "The contract-"

"I don't care about the contract," he interrupted her, "That demon has been in charge of the game this whole time, playing with us as though we were mere puppets."

She shook her head. "My love, I have to be on stage in ten minutes."

"Please," he begged, "We can leave tonight, I've tickets to a ship out of the city, to Germany!" He stared imploringly at her, holding her hand to his heart. "Please, for both our sakes, and for Gustave."

"Go and find Gustave," she said softly as he stood, "I need time to think, it's all- it's too much, Raoul, I just need a moment."

He nodded, pressing one last kiss to her hand before going to the door.

He looked back just once, with a silent  _ I love you _ in his eyes, then went to find his son.

After a mere few seconds, Christine stood, going to the door.

Only it was locked.

"You know his love is not all you need, my Christine," the Phantom's low, smooth voice came from behind her, making her jump as she turned to face him, "You are made for finer things, more beautiful things." He strolled toward her. "It's in your blood, it's written in the stars… It is your destiny."

"How can you judge what is best for me?" she asked, narrowing her eyes at him. "How can  _ you _ be the judge of my destiny?"

"You would think yourself a woman bound to be nothing but a wife and mother, filling the role of Vicomtesse?" he asked, a distinct amusement laced through the words and the semblance of a smirk on his face. "My Christine, had that been the case, you would not have been gifted with so much natural talent, beautiful even when unrefined but after my tutelage?" He grasped his chest. "Your voice makes my soul soar and my heart race."

"And Raoul is nothing then?" she asked, moving past Erik to her vanity.

"It is but one song, what harm can it bring him?" Erik asked, coming up to stand behind her. "I ask only this one thing from you, whereas he wants much more—your love, your life, your hand in marriage."

"You seem to forget that he and I have already married," she said, making eye contact with him in the mirror, "He already has everything you said. He has my love, and my life, and my hand."

Erik leaned in close to her ear. "But does he own your soul, the same way my music does, the same way I do?"

A knock came at the door and a stagehand called, "You're needed on stage in five minutes, Miss Daaé!"

Erik stepped back, a satisfied gleam in his eyes as he bowed low. "I shall leave you to it, my dear, I trust you know what lies in your heart better than I or he ever could."

With that, he left, though Christine never saw how, she simply looked up and he had gone—she hadn't seen him enter either, but didn't have time to dwell on it nor investigate.

He disclosed to me later in our interviews that he had secret passageways all throughout Phantasma, for ease of travel between places without being stopped by reporters or performers or curious patrons. One such passageway was behind the shelf used for wigs, headdresses, and hairpieces—a small button pressed and the shelf opened like a door, allowing him to reach the space inside the walls.

While we discussed many of the passageways, I won't be disclosing most of that information here as the carnival is still a popular attraction, and I would not want those who are not permitted finding these entries.

I have, however, been allowed by Monsieur de la Croix to reveal the existence of the entry behind the shelf as I have not stated where the button to open it is, nor even the number of the dressing room in which it resides.

Christine took a deep breath, looking at herself in the mirror.

It was all twisted in every possible way, and she had to make a choice.

A choice which held far more consequences than she'd been told.


	11. Love Never Dies

The curtain opened on Christine.

She wore a blue dress with the stage behind her decorated to resemble peacock feathers—a beautiful display, expertly crafted by the talented set designers at Phantasma.

As the music began, she realized Erik and Raoul were standing on either side of the wings, just far enough off stage they couldn't be seen by the audience.

She sang the first verse, trying to focus on staring ahead, rather than allowing her husband or employer to distract her.

With the second verse, she began looking back and forth between them with each line.

She realized then that Erik was looking incredibly smug while Raoul seemed to be more and more concerned with each word.

Her singing faltered as she thought about how they had come to her before the performance, one to tell her to leave without singing and the other to encourage her to go ahead with the song as planned.

"I'm sorry," she said to the audience as she gathered the front of her dress in her hands, "I'm afraid I must go, I'm terribly sorry!"

She ran to Raoul, throwing herself into his arms. "I should've realized you wouldn't ask me not to perform for absolutely no reason," she muttered, holding on tightly to his waist. "I don't know what's going on with you two, but I choose you—forever and always."

"I know Madame de Chagny's sudden departure is disappointing," Erik's voice boomed as he took center stage, "I assure you, if you would like a refund, it will be arranged—otherwise, I shall welcome our dancers out for one more song, and you may enjoy the rest of your night."

He strolled off stage, approaching Christine and Raoul. "I can't pretend to be happy and congratulate you, sir, but she chose you—you win, fair and square."

Raoul's arm around her shoulders tightened very slightly, just enough that Erik knew to take a step back. "Well, sir, we shall take our leave."

"Wait," Christine spoke up suddenly, catching both men's attention as she looked around. "Gustave?"

"What's wrong?" Erik asked, frowning.

"Where is he?" she asked, an open question, really, but more so directed towards Raoul. "He was meant to be watching from backstage!"

"He was standing just there a moment ago!" Raoul released his wife, trying to look over the performers and stagehands. He turned suddenly to Erik. "What have you done with him?!"

"Not I, sir," Erik said, looking just as shocked as the couple. He grabbed Dr. Gangle's arm as The Trio walked past. "Who else was backstage?"

"Well, Madame Giry, sir," he answered, confusion apparent on his heavily made up face. "The dancers, Meg, all the stagehands-"

"Get Giry," Erik growled, "She has been against my bringing Christine here since the beginning."

It was barely a moment before The Trio returned with Madame Giry in tow.

"How dare they manhandle me," she said, pulling her arm away from Squelch. "If you wanted to see me, I need only be summoned."

"The boy, Madame," Erik growled, towering over her. "What have you done with him?"

"Monsieur?" she stared back at him. "You cannot believe I would harm the child, I know who he is."

"Wonderful, as does everyone else!" Raoul snapped, "Now, where is he?"

"Sir," Miss Fleck spoke up, "Perhaps it means nothing, but I've just seen Meg's dressing room; it's in a messy state, mirror shattered, things tossed around, and she's nowhere to be seen."

Madame Giry scoffed, though she looked absolutely terrified. "You can't believe-"

"I know where she would've gone," Raoul said, interrupting her. "Monsieur, I do not trust you, but you would never allow harm to come to Gustave, would you?"

"Absolutely not, Monsieur," Erik answered immediately.

Raoul studied his face for just a moment before nodding, earning a mirrored response.

The de Chagnys, Erik, and Madame Giry took off towards the pier, as quickly as they could move.

I'm sure you, the readers, have been wondering where the aforementioned gun might come into the story.

Here is where it plays a vital role.

Meg stood on the pier, using one hand to drag Gustave along behind herself, while the other hand was occupied with the gun.

Now, you may see why this might pose a problem: a kidnapped child in one hand, and a deadly weapon in the other—and you would, of course, be completely right.

It's not really a good look for anyone.

"Please, Miss Giry, I want to go back!" Gustave said, trying to pull away from her. "I want my mother!"

"It's okay, Gustave," Meg said as they reached the end of the pier. "It'll all be over soon."

"Please, you're hurting me!" he screamed, tears welling up in his eyes.

"Let him go, Meg!" Raoul shouted, "He's done nothing to you!"

"Hasn't he?" she asked, her grip on the boy tightening. "It's because of this child that  _ he _ won't spare me a second thought, even as I do  _ everything  _ for him!"

"Meg, please," Christine begged, "It's not his fault!"

"Let go of him, Meg!" Erik growled, stepping forward. "Or I promise you-"

"Don't you dare take another step!" Meg said, swinging Gustave to be dangerously close to the edge. "I always wondered what it took to get your attention, ever since I was a little girl in the opera house, seems I've found it now, eh?" she laughed—not a happy laugh, but a sad one, bordering on maniacal. "It only took 30 years!"

"Meg," Madame Giry pleaded, holding her hands out in a placating gesture.

"Stop talking!" Meg screamed, "Everyone just shut up!" She breathed unevenly, grip so tight on the boy's arm, he was starting to lose feeling in his fingers. "Do you have  _ any _ idea what it's actually like on Coney Island, what it's like being the 'bathing beauty'?"

She let go of Gustave who immediately ran to his mother's arms, crying against her dress.

"I did all of it for  _ you _ ," she said, gesturing with the gun towards Erik who was slowly inching forward. "In the dressing room, in their laps, in their arms-" She sobbed, pointing the gun at her own head. "Here's the big finale, Monsieur, then you can go."

"Give me the gun, Meg," Erik said, approaching slowly and carefully. "Give me the hurt, and the pain, and the blame for everything I have been blind to all these years."

"You can't pretend to care now!" she yelled, sobbing.

"Oh, but I do, Meg, listen to me," he said, still moving closer and closer. "I was blind before, but I can see through to the beauty underneath." His hand touched his mask fleetingly before extending toward her. "We can't all be like Christine."

"Christine!" Meg shrieked, using the gun to gesture at the soprano who quickly stepped in front of Gustave. "It's always about Christine with you, isn't-"

The gun discharging cut her off, Gustave screamed and everyone else stared at Christine as she touched her side.

She slowly held up her hand, staring at the blood glistening on her fingertips.

"Christine!" Meg screamed, throwing the gun on the pier as she ran to her. "I didn't- I mean, I just-"

"I'm okay, Meg," Christine assured her, even as she winced. "It's only a scratch, really."

Erik came up behind her, tucking the now unloaded gun into his pocket. "I would thank you, however, to no longer wave guns around without caution."

"I'm sorry," she said, unable to meet anyone's eyes.

"What you need, my dear, is some help," Erik said—an ironic statement coming from him, for who needed therapy more than a traumatized man who dealt with his inability to process emotions by murdering people?

"And she shall have it," Madame Giry assured him, gently putting an arm around her daughter. "I'm so sorry for not seeing the truth sooner, my little Meg."

Meg just cried into her mother's arms as she led her away.

"Now," Erik addressed Christine softly. "I swore I would not seek you out any longer, and so I shan't. I would only like to wish you happiness in life."

Raoul extended his hand. "I thank you, sir, for saving my son."

Erik looked shocked for a moment before recovering, shaking his hand. "Should you ever find yourselves wishing to return, I assure you, you will be treated as my most esteemed guests—young Monsieur Gustave especially."

"Monsieur," Gustave spoke up then, "might you remove your mask, please?"

"Gustave," Christine said softly.

"I want to see him, Maman," he said, "I won't run or scream this time."

Erik's eyes flitted from Gustave, to Christine, to Raoul, then back to the boy.

He looked like a caged animal for a moment as he considered, before he nodded slowly.

He took a deep breath as he kneeled in front of Gustave, reaching up to carefully remove the mask.

"Thank you for saving me, Monsieur," Gustave said, throwing his arms around Erik's neck. "Mother always said to treat others kindly, I'm sorry for before."

Erik let out a huffy sort of laugh—the kind of laugh you might expect from one who rarely felt enough joy to warrant happiness and who was out of practice in those types of interactions.

"Thank you, young Vicomte," he said softly as the boy stepped back again, "I believe you have been the brightest light in my otherwise dark world."

"Goodbye, sir," Raoul said, taking Gustave's hand. "If we are to meet again, let it be under happy circumstances with no facades or disguises of other people."

Erik stood then bowed to the de Chagnys. "May your travels be safe."

He stood there for a long time, long after the de Chagnys had disappeared into the mist and the crowd and the carnival lights.

He turned to stare out at the dark waters below, hands tucked behind his back.

He pulled the gun from his pocket, considering only for a moment before dropping it into the ocean.

Then he turned towards Phantasma, strolling easily back into his domain.

He had much to do before opening back up in the spring, after all; he needed a new headline act, some adjustments needed to be made to set designs and long-running shows, he'd have to consider having another ride built from the blueprints he had scattered around his office—Monsieur Erik de la Croix, the mysterious Mr. Y, would open in March of 1906 with a show bigger and brighter than ever before.


	12. A Note From The Author's Family

I found this manuscript in a box in the attic of my old family home.

Alongside it was a note from a publisher dated November 15th, 1929, which reads:

**Miss Sacha Desjardins,**

**While this is a fascinating read, which would no doubt do well on the market in any other time, we can no longer print your book due to the events of the past few weeks.**

**We hope you can understand that in these trying times, we cannot publish something of this nature nor much of anything else, for that matter.**

**We apologize for any inconveniences we may have caused you, and wish you luck in finding another publisher.**

**Regards, The Derrydale Press**

I thought the note was interesting, so I read the book.

Afterwards, I began to wonder how much truth was in it, so I decided to do some digging into my family past and whatever I could find about Phantasma.

Apparently, Sacha Desjardins, or Sacha Fields after marriage, my great-great-grandmother, wrote this back in 1928, after researching and compiling data for about two years.

According to some news articles I've managed to find, all the people she named did exist, so I can trust this is a proper account of the truth, with minor changes such as dialogue since no one could remember exactly what words were used so many years ago.

It was a struggle to find anything relating to The Trio aside from brief mentions of their acts, but I did find an article stating Squelch died in an accident during a show—they had a large tent that was up permanently, so it had one huge support beam in the center and many branching off higher, as well as several on the sides, so they didn't have to put it up every night.

According to eyewitnesses, an elephant got spooked and ran into the wooden support beam at the center of the tent, causing it to start to break apart.

Squelch held up the main support beam long enough for everyone else to get out, but couldn't get himself out and ended up being crushed by another beam that fell from the upper parts of the tent. He was honored as a hero for saving 500 people from what might have been a horrible tragedy.

Based on what I found in my own family tree and records, the grandmother she mentions who was a ballerina in the 1870s–80s would have been Cécile Desjardins (née Jammes), my great-great-great-great-grandmother.

Cécile's son immigrated to America with his wife and their infant daughter in 1897.

The youngest of their four daughters, Sacha Desjardins was born in 1908 and, according to her personal diary and letters, was completely enthralled by the tale of what happened those few days at Phantasma, even though she wasn't even born at the time, and wanted to find out the whole truth which no one seemed able to get right.

She began tracking down the important people in the account in 1925, when she was 17, finally having some success in 1926 with the discovery of Christine de Chagny's whereabouts.

She had a dream of being a successful journalist—and had several published articles in late 1927 and early 1928, and did eventually get her wish in the 1930s when she managed to get a job writing for a newspaper publisher that is still around today,  _ The New York Times _ , where she met my great-great-grandfather, and wrote for them until she retired in 1969—but this story was her own personal pet project.

Unfortunately, with the stock market crash which then led to the Great Depression, the manuscript ended up sitting in the attic for generations until I found it.

I also managed to find the living descendants of Monsieur le Vicomte and Madame la Vicomtesse de Chagny—who died in 1948 and 1956, respectively—and I do have their permission to release this story to the public.

I have no intention of taking credit for this book, I only wished for it to finally see the light of day given how much work and love went into it.

I hope you enjoyed reading this story which was written almost a century ago.

I know it would've made my great-great-grandmother very happy to know someone finally read it.


End file.
